


Cherry Bomb

by Hyperthetical



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Comeplay, Cunnilingus, Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Face-Sitting, Femdom, HYDRA Trash Compactor Challenge, HYDRA Trash Party, Minor Character Death, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-22 10:06:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3724858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyperthetical/pseuds/Hyperthetical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Soldier's new handler doesn't look like Steve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cherry Bomb

**Author's Note:**

> Written at hydratrashmeme for the [March HYDRA Trash Compactor Challenge](http://stoatsandwich.tumblr.com/post/112695095561/the-march-hydra-trash-compactor-premise) based on [faun-song](http://faun-songs.tumblr.com)'s gorgeous [art](http://faun-songs.tumblr.com/post/108479925340/pierces-50th-anniversary-was-quite-the-thrill) [NSFW].
> 
> Cautious readers may want to refer to more detailed, but spoiler-y, content notes in the author's End Notes. 
> 
> Thanks to jasfa, snakesocks, and just_tea for the beta!
> 
> I now exist on [tumblr](http://quiescentire.tumblr.com)! Follow me for almost no content other than notes to myself about writing.

***

**Columbus, OH  
December 21, 1979**

"Ah, Ophelia." Pierce nodded, deliberately not offering a hand to shake. "You look lovely. Very festive." She really did. Her penchant for green for once suited the occasion, and in her tall boots she had several inches on him. The crossed bandoliers slung over her hips only detracted somewhat from the party atmosphere.

"Alexander." She eyed the sprig of mistletoe pinned to his lapel distastefully.

"Enjoying the decorations?"

"Hardly," the Viper rolled her eyes. In a burst of holiday whimsy, or possibly a wish for death, as Pierce imagined they might now be bleeding out on the hallway carpet, some brave soul had given her a crown of holly. It slipped down low where her bangs fell across the left side of her face. 

Ophelia Sarkissian -- the Viper, Madame Hydra, ruler of Madripoor, although Pierce wasn't sure of the current legality of that last one -- surveyed the oak-panelled drawing room with disdain. Bureaucrats, low-level politicians, and a smattering of personnel from various agencies nattered away at each other, sipping mulled wine and getting sticky fingerprints all over the historic display items and assorted taxidermy. In the dim lighting, the grime from decades of neglect didn't detract much from the nineteenth-century version of opulence. It was all very dated.

Novelty headwear aside, Pierce thought, Sarkissian was in a strange mood. It was unusual for her to make an appearance at such a low-level function, and unheard of for her to rub elbows (metaphorically at least; Pierce assumed anybody who accidentally touched her would instantly burst into flames) with all these nobodies. It irritated him, to be lumped in the same category as their host -- director Powell from the state Commerce department, who presumably had arranged the Norman Rockwell Christmas nightmare that had defiled every static object in the room -- and the other entrenched old-timers who lived off of the graft and corruption afforded by their positions. Using HYDRA to secure their power and influence, but lacking the vision to crack the world open and reshape it for the better. Pierce could do so much better.

A ripple of laughter was followed by a shriek of pain from across the room, where stockings were hung by the fire with care. Pierce ignored the commotion. He wasn't here for the entertainment, such as it was. The rabble had enough sense to to stay the hell away from the Viper, at least. The place was packed but there was six feet of empty space around them in all directions.

The crowd swirled around them, a galaxy rotating around its center. "I hear you brought your pet with you, Ophelia. How charming. How's the weather in Kabul this time of year?"

Sarkissian's mouth quirked up in an almost-smile. "Colder than Caracas, although I'm sure El Gocho would take care of you. Which of the Twelve Apostles are you, again?"

Pierce smiled back politely. "I prefer to think of myself as an apostle to the apostles."

"Well then, Magdaleñe," she emphasized the palatal nasal, "You have your work cut out for you. Nationalization has not been a popular idea. The Baron thinks you do not consider the history of our organization."

"And what do you think, Madame?"

She shot him a sharp look. "You know I approved it. Without taking some risks, we'll never progress. I'm looking to the future, not trying to relive past glory. Socialism, communism, democracy, whatever gets the job done. It's all the same to me."

"Change is rarely comfortable." Pierce paused, and inclined his head towards hers. "The organization is stagnant." He swept a hand to encompass the dated room. A basement in downtown Columbus was hardly the seat of power. "Is this all there is? Is this all we can accomplish?" 

Her lip curled in disgust. "It sickens me on a profound level," she said in a tight voice. "My entire life dedicated to an ideal that is being twisted into itself by selfish amateurs. Now HYDRA has become a group without meaning or purpose. Not being able to adapt itself to the future."

Pierce saw his opening and didn't hesitate. "HYDRA needs new blood. New ideas. Men of vision--" 

"--and women," Sarkissian interjected.

"And women," Pierce agreed, "with the courage to take action."

"Yes." She paused, scanning the room. "Director Carter has us all at a standstill if we continue to do nothing. Sitting around waiting for her to retire is not a viable strategy."

"Neither is turning everybody in Washington into snakes …"

Sarkissian waved a hand irritably at the jibe. "R&D needs a new vision, too. This isn't a comic book."

"Oh, I'll have you know I drank bottled water for a month after that meeting. It was very threatening, real super-villain stuff." Pierce winked. 

Sarkissian snorted despite herself. "Regardless. We have better weapons than this. Better people than this." Her eyes roved over the crowd, assessing. Judging. Finding them wanting. 

"I'm cutting away the dead wood. Bear me some fruit, my little Magdaleña, and I'll ensure your seeds are planted in the best soil." Sarkissian adjusted the mistletoe pinned to his lapel. "I like this. It's a parasite and the berries are poisonous, but people think it's romantic." She gave him a meaningful look. "You should leave." 

Pierce swallowed. "Are you here long?"

"A few hours at most," she said, distant. "I have business tonight and then I'm needed elsewhere. The Soviets go to war in a few days, and he comes with me," nodding at the Soldier by the fireplace. "Some weapons are best fired personally."

Pierce raised his champagne flute to her sardonically. "To war," he said.

"To victory."

*

Joanne M. Dalhart (B.A., M.A.), former USAF Captain (AFSC 16P3), currently a mid-ranking analyst in the Great Lakes region of S.H.I.E.L.D. (District Assistant Manager, Asian Affairs Bureau), was certainly not hiding out in the women's restroom. She had made a highly strategic decision to touch up her lipstick before her host arrived, and now was adjusting her foundation garments with a critical eye to the lines of her dress.

Dalhart was beyond the point where a mental pep talk would make any difference. She had a personal invitation-slash-command from a visiting out-of-region superior, so she put on her mission face and walked back out into the party with her head held high. Neatly avoiding a very hands-y Santa Claus -- who looked strikingly like the head of the Ohio state Department of Commerce in a cheap wig -- Dalhart eased back into the crowd. She was definitely the lowest-ranking officer present; there were more old white men here than at the curling club back home.

The room was warm with the press of bodies and smelled like stale cigar smoke. Dalhart nibbled on a gingerbread man and waited, her stomach churning with anticipation. It was very old-fashioned decor in here, like they were pretending to be Freemasons or something. A stuffed mountain lion by the door held a Christmas wreath in its outstretched claws, and in the corner an enormous grizzly bear towered over them wearing an elf hat trimmed with jingle bells. Even the pheasants had little glass balls strung around their necks with tinsel. Plaques on the wall displayed well-preserved rifles, muskets, a flintlock or two, all with engraved brass name plates, as if anybody would care. Who wanted a gun that couldn't fire anymore?

She paced around the room to keep herself occupied, nodding at a few familiar faces but not engaging in conversation. She had just transferred in from the west coast and didn't know most of these people. Since her brother had married and moved back to Boise, the gaudy artificial thing over by the fireplace was likely the only Christmas tree she would see this year. Hell, she'd been here for three months and her apartment was still full of half-empty moving boxes. S.H.I.E.L.D. had offered her interesting work, but it hadn't done much for her personal life.

A riffle of mean-spirited laughter emanated from a knot of hard-looking men across the room. Dalhart slipped through the crowd to get closer, annoyed that she was too short to see over most people's shoulders. The alphabet soup of organizations who'd contributed personnel to this function seemed to preferentially hire tall people.

Through a gap in the sea of suits and dress mess she saw what had drawn their attention. A brocaded chaise longue pushed up against the wall was occupied by a broad, brown-haired, very naked man. _Was that him_? She watched the back of a male agent's head as he sprawled on the other end of the chaise, uncoordinated enough that he must have been drinking. He said something to his buddies that Dalhart couldn't quite hear and then reached for the naked man, and--

Everyone in the room heard the agent's agonized scream as the Soldier -- it had to be him, it had to -- made his objection known. The horrible crunching sound likely meant some kind of twisting injury, torn ligaments and tendons involved as well as broken bones. Dalhart winced.

The injured agent shoved bodily past her as he staggered towards the door, hunched over his arm protectively, his buddies helping support him as they called for medics. Dalhart finally had a clear view of what was going on and realized it was because she was now standing alone in front of everybody. The Soldier was staring right at her, face unreadable behind a black mask that covered most of his face. Her bright red dress suddenly seemed like a terrible idea. She had just wanted to wear something pretty for once, dammit, she'd spent most of her twenties in Air Force blues--

She stood perfectly still without returning eye contact, and after a few seconds his eyes lost their sharp focus and she could breathe again. The Viper had briefed her, and she'd read the few files she managed to dig up on short notice, but it was nothing like seeing him in person. He wasn't enormous, she'd seen bigger men, but he was -- there was something menacing about him. It was unsettling how he just switched off like that, like he'd gone somewhere else completely.

Dalhart eased back into the crowd but continued to study him from a safe distance. He'd tucked one foot underneath himself and the other dangled just off the ground, incongruously casual. A fine gold chain tied him to the wall by the neck, and he wrapped it around a finger but didn't make any move to break free. Dalhart wondered who had put the black jewels around his throat, if it was maybe the Viper's idea of a Christmas decoration for her favourite toy. He was certainly more interactive than the taxidermy.

She skulked by the fireplace for only a few minutes more before the Viper appeared at her side. Dalhart straightened reflexively. In her line of sight, the Soldier stilled, his attention fixed on the Viper.

"Joanne," the Viper -- Sarkissian -- said, kissing her cheek and shooting a quelling glance at the Soldier, who was now radiating hostility. "I'm so glad you could make it."

"It was my pleasure. I'm very interested to talk with you about your proposal." As if anybody in their right mind would refuse the Viper. Dalhart assumed that would be fatal.

Sarkissian actually smiled, wide enough to show off a dimple. It might even be genuine. "Of course. I take it you've seen him by now."

Dalhart nodded. "He's really something." What that something was, she was a little afraid to find out. The metal arm was unmistakable when he wasn't leaning back into the shadows.

"I love your dress. It's perfectly tailored." Sarkissian touched her elbow admiringly. 

Dalhart fiddled with the ruffles at the neckline. "Thank you. I don't usually play dress-up."

"That's a shame. I suppose I can't offer you much in the line of social engagements, but I think this assignment would suit you just as well."

"Oh?" Finally, time to talk business.

"I assume you've been following the situation in central Asia?"

Dalhart nodded again. She'd done her M.A. on the effects of regional linguistic diversity on the geopolitics of the western Soviet border in the early Cold War period, and considered keeping up with the topic part of her academic duty as well as her current work assignment. Of course the Viper knew that, though. They'd met in Tehran three years ago when Dalhart was still in the service.

"We're scaling up our operations in the region, and I need your skill set. Yours specifically. The list of people qualified to do this job is," the Viper sighed, "extremely short. And most of the candidates are not -- suitable, for one reason or another."

There was really only one response. "How can I help?"

The Viper wrapped an arm around her waist and walked them over to the Soldier, unsnapping his leash from the wall. "Come, let me show you."

*

The Director's office was large, done in the same antiquated style as the drawing room. Sarkissian flipped on a baroque floor lamp as they entered, seemingly at ease. Dalhart willed herself not to puke out of sheer nerves.

"You ever have a dog?" Sarkissian asked. Dalhart shook her head, no. Her parents weren't the nurturing type, didn't want another thing to take care of. And since she finished college and joined the service, she'd been out of the country too much to own so much as a fish.

"Same principles apply. Give clear directions. Provide immediate corrections when required, but have a short memory." She skimmed a stun baton up the Soldier's flank. Goosebumps rose on his skin under the touch. "They crave your attention, your affection, your approval." Sarkissian's lips curved upwards as she extended a hand to the Soldier, palm-out in invitation. He leaned in her direction but didn't move otherwise, still on his knees where she had placed him when they entered the room.

Sarkissian took a step forward and put a hand in his hair, fingertips scratching firm circles into his scalp. He swayed towards her and sighed, pushing in to the touch. "Show you're a good master and you'll have his loyalty. Those idiots out there are worse than useless, believe me, we've tried. Treat a dog vicious and they'll give it right back to you." That sounded true enough. Dalhart had read about the incidents in '57, in '61. In '64, when he took out his entire combat team. That extended episode in '73. The trail of bodies in the Soldier's wake were not all HYDRA's enemies.

"The men are too rough, they overcorrect. A little finesse works so much better." She fisted his hair and pulled his head back, forcing him to look up at her until his eyes teared up over the muzzle. He moved fluidly with her, unresisting. "Proper handling is key. The loyalty of such a fine beast is a weapon. Maintain it and invest in it like you would any other." She released her grip and went back to petting, and he blinked rapidly to clear the tears away, docile as anything.

Dalhart watched, emboldened. Sarkissian had the Soldier's rapt attention; he had spared Dalhart not a glance since the Viper had down-commanded him on the expensive Persian rug. For all her talk of dogs, she was more like a snake charmer than anything else -- the Soldier looked at her like she was the sun, like he'd seen the face of God. The files Dalhart had managed to procure before tonight had suggested he was an unthinking automaton, emotionless, given to unpredictable bursts of violence, but five minutes with Sarkissian had showed her that was wrong. Dalhart revised her opinion. Perhaps the Soldier was still valuable in the field, not a useless relic of some other Captain's war. And what a trophy, to lord over the men who chafed at a woman's command.

Sarkissian looked over at Dalhart. "He does seem to prefer a woman's touch," she said. "And there are -- other advantages -- to having him assigned to you." She smiled conspiratorially and stepped closer to him. 

_Oh_ , Dalhart thought. _Of course._ It was naive of her to assume that only men would want to take advantage. 

The Soldier looked up at Sarkissian and Dalhart could almost see his pupils dilate as his eyes flicked over her face, her stomach, the olive skin of her thighs showing above her boots. Sarkissian beckoned her closer. "Come right behind him, put your hands on his shoulders. Touch him," she urged. "If he'll be yours, he needs to get used to you." Dalhart placed a tentative hand over his shoulder -- the right one, his left was a mess of scars and metal -- and the Soldier shuddered under her. She felt a heady thrill of power, and Sarkissian mirrored her smile. "He can't help it. I've been winding him up all night, little touches, you know, but it's enough. He's starving for it now." Then she spoke directly at the Soldier. "Don't worry, it's alright. I know." His breathing picked up as Dalhart's hands traced over his heavily-muscled back and chest. The prosthesis must be quite heavy, she thought to herself. Even his neck was dense with supporting muscle.

Dalhart put her palm over his muzzle and tipped his head back, imitating Sarkissian's earlier move. The Soldier looked to Sarkissian questioningly and then just -- let her. Their eyes met briefly, although the Soldier seemed to be looking through her more than anything else. She was an afterthought to him right now, irrelevant compared to his mistress. Dalhart tried not to feel insulted. 

His dick was already half-hard between his legs and they'd barely done anything yet, just pushed him around a little. Sarkissian was right, he must be desperate for any attention. Dalhart wondered what he might be like with another few hours of teasing, if this powerful animal would crawl and whine and beg for them. A spike of arousal shot through her, and she filed that thought away for some other time.

The Soldier's breath through the mask was hot and damp across her fingers. Although -- that was a question. "You really keep a muzzle on him the whole time?" she asked Sarkissian, puzzled. Had she read the mens' intentions wrong in the drawing room? Their hostility had seemed so obvious.

"Well," Sarkissian said, "He doesn't like men much. He tends to bite." She patted the Soldier's cheek fondly. 

Dalhart laughed incredulously. What poor bastard had been the first to discover that little quirk? "And how does he feel about women?" She squeezed the back of his neck, not ungently. There was no give. He might as well be made of steel.

Sarkissian leered at Dalhart over the Soldier's head, white teeth glinting in the low light. "Rather differently," she said. She dropped her gaze back down to the Soldier, who looked up at her -- hopefully, maybe. It was hard to tell. "You know what I want, Soldier," she said as she unbuckled the straps of his mask and placed it on the desk beside her.

The Soldier pressed his stubbled cheek against her thigh and inhaled, lines of tension in his back relaxing as he settled some of his weight against her. He started kissing up her leg, hands coming up to to push her knees apart as she sat back against the edge of the desk. Every few seconds he glanced back up at her, for permission, Dalhart assumed, or perhaps just reassurance that he was performing adequately. The hem of her dress rucked up with his movement, and she pulled it up around her waist out of the way. She wore nothing underneath -- _of course not,_ Dalhart thought wryly, the Viper did have a reputation to maintain.

The Soldier made it to the crease of her thigh and paused, looking up at her from his knees. Sarkissian smiled indulgently and placed a hand on his metal shoulder, nodding her permission. He wasted no time as he licked down into her folds, groaning quietly to himself as his nose brushed against the dark curly hair between her legs. Dalhart glanced down at him, interested. He was fully erect and neither of them had really touched him, nor was he touching himself. She wished even half of her lovers had shown such enthusiasm for cunnilingus.

Sarkissian had him well-trained, that was for sure. After a few minutes her hand slipped up his neck to cup the back of his head and he responded by pushing her legs farther apart, lips and tongue working rhythmically against her. Dalhart's pussy clenched in sympathy. "Oh," Sarkissian said. Her cool facade was showing the slightest cracks as he mouthed at her, sucking at her clit, his eyes fallen half-shut and looking more content than he had all night. "Oh, oh, _oh_ ," and Dalhart saw one of the Soldier's metal fingers slip inside her as she rocked against him. "Yes, that's right -- you're such a good pet -- _ahh_ \--" and she came, hips bucking against his face. He held her steady against the desk, tonguing her gently as she came down and eventually opening his eyes for further instructions. He was breathing hard, and a dull flush spread all down his chest. "Alright, that's enough, come on." Sarkissian pushed him away firmly and he settled back on his heels, clearly reluctant to stop.

Sarkissian rolled her head on her neck and then grinned at Dalhart, playful. The Soldier took advantage of her momentary distraction and moved back in to mouth over her inner thigh. His chin was streaked with her juices, and Sarkissian didn't seem to care that he smeared them across her leg. Her skin pinked up under a week's worth of beard. "And to think you could have taken that posting to Idaho!" She giggled, more girlish than Dalhart thought the Viper would ever have appeared. 

Dalhart covered her mouth to muffle her own snort of laughter and glanced towards the door. It was closed, but you could never be too careful. Sarkissian had shoved several piles of paper off the desk to make room, and orphaned pages and file folders were scattered across the floor. If the Commerce director walked in on them fooling around in his office--

"Stop worrying, I made arrangements before we arrived. Come here and play. Look at him, he's being so good right now, aren't you," Sarkissian cooed at the Soldier, hands twisting in his hair. He kept sidling closer towards her, edging silently across the carpet until he was pressed right up against the side of the desk. He'd gotten one of her knees over his shoulder and was biting his way upwards, perhaps hoping for a second round. Dalhart realized her own panties were soaked, and she pressed her legs together.

"Talk to him, though, go on," Sarkissian encouraged her, dropping her leg and firmly pushing the Soldier away. "He's been paying attention to you all night, he knows I think you're important."

Dalhart paused. Rather than say anything, she picked up the end of his leash. Sarkissian hadn't bothered with it once they were away from the mens' jealous eyes, but Dalhart wanted to see if it was merely decorative, or if using the Soldier really was as much like directing a dog as the Viper had implied.

The Soldier stilled at the first touch on the chain and looked up at Dalhart standing there in her red dress, wary. Sarkissian shoved him away again and redirected his attention to Dalhart. "I'm done with you, go on."

Dalhart drew the delicate links between her fingers and pulled him closer, closer. His eyes locked on hers were a burning, bright blue. His gaze was unsettlingly intense as he half-turned over his shoulder to face her, and her gut swooped at the memory of files full of field agents brutally beaten, shot, knifed, technicians torn limb from limb by this -- creature. To say nothing of his actual kills. The Viper's affectation of girlish flirtation around the Soldier suddenly seemed less like a silly crush and more like a warlord savouring her prowess, gloating as she demonstrated her dominance--

Dalhart froze. The Soldier flowed still closer as the chain slipped through her nerveless fingers, his face turned cold and calculating. She wasn't the sun. She wasn't the sun and she wasn't the Viper, she was foolish to think that her ambitions would lead anywhere but an early grave, her life was going to end very suddenly in some corrupt politicians' dumb office in fucking _Ohio_ \--

"No. Down." The Viper snapped. The Soldier hesitated, still half-coiled to spring. The Viper got a finger under his collar, twisting until the gemstones bit into his throat. She flicked on the stun baton -- it had never left her hand since they entered the room, Dalhart realized -- and its glowing blue light reflected chaotically off the paned windows. The Viper drew the Soldier up to full extension by the neck, almost pulling him up off the floor with it. His face was stony as she placed the business end of the baton almost delicately against his groin, her thumb on the activation button. They stared at each other.

"I said _down_. I don't expect to have to repeat myself."

Shards of blue light flickered wildly over the desk, the patterned carpet, the peel of an orange sitting on the arm of a chair. A half-smoked cigarette lay abandoned in a crystal ash tray. Dalhart knew she had never been so close to death. 

The seconds seemed to stretch out for minutes, hours, an eternity of fearful agony as the Viper and the Soldier fought an entirely silent battle of wills. Dalhart just stood there, frozen in terror as her heart hammered in her chest.

The Soldier lost.

The Viper looked utterly unfazed as he yielded, slumping towards the floor and averting his gaze. "What's gotten into you, huh? What was that?" She stroked his jaw and he leaned into her touch once more. "Silly goose."

Definitely Dalhart had never switched from turned-on to nearly-pissing-herself terrified so quickly. Her stomach roiled.

Sarkissian kept the stun baton ready but looked over at Dalhart. "Be assertive. Animals can sense fear, they'll exploit it. You're in charge. Act like it."

Okay. She could do this. The Viper was right there, she wasn't handling him alone. She took a steadying breath.

"Unzip me," she commanded. The Soldier again looked to the Viper first, who gestured for him to proceed. She tucked her hair out of the way and turned away from him so he could reach up to the fastener. He moved so fluidly, graceful and silent even just pulling down the zipper tab.

She wriggled out of the sleeves less artfully than she would like, then turned back to face her audience and pushed the dress down until it pooled around her ankles. Dalhart stepped out of it, kicking it away under a chair. Between the longline bra, waist-cincher, garters and stockings, she at least wasn't fully exposed standing there in just her heels and panties. She fervently hoped the coffee-brown satin was dark enough to hide nervous sweat. 

Sarkissian was sitting on the desk looking impressed. "You look very much like her," she said, and Dalhart was too keyed-up to ask for an explanation. The Soldier blinked slowly, gazing at Dalhart without hostile intent for the first time that night.

"You, stay. You, come over here," Sarkissian ordered, shifting backwards to make room and patting the desk in front of her. Dalhart slipped out of her pumps and walked over to her in stockinged feet. The Soldier stayed where he was told, head pivoting to watch her move.

Dalhart took Sarkissian's place leaning against the desk with her feet braced on the floor. The Viper's hands wrapped around her waist, pulling her backwards until she was flush against her chest.

"Go ahead, I'm right here," Sarkissian said calmly into her ear.

Dalhart decided. In for a penny, in for a pound. She could do this.

"Soldier, come over here." He did so immediately, whisper-quiet, eyes flickering over her painted lips, her generous hips and thighs.

"Start with -- start with my feet."

He was so powerful, bending elegantly to kiss the arch of her foot. He glanced up and then continued, placing delicate kisses over her anklebone, up her calves, mimicking the pattern with his right hand on her other leg. At her knees he paused and she spread her legs wider in invitation. Satisfied, he kept working upwards, kisses getting firmer and wetter as he started mouthing at her stockings. She hoped he didn't put runs in it with his scruff. The silk lace-tops had been hard to track down.

Sarkissian held her as she started shifting restlessly. Dalhart had heard that arousal and fear shared some of the same neural pathways, but living it was a very different experience. She was either going to come faster than she ever had or panic and bolt right out the door, she wasn't sure which.

As he had with Sarkissian, the Soldier stopped when he reached the crease of her groin, waiting for permission. "Um, you can -- yes, continue," and he swept a tongue across her through the panties. "Oh," Dalhart said in surprise, and he must have taken that as encouragement because now he was licking firmly over her again and again, pushing her legs even farther apart with his broad shoulders, hands pressing lightly on her thighs to hold her legs open for him. Even through the fabric she could feel the heat of his mouth, raspy tongue dragging over the damp satin.

She caught herself before she started squirming. "Alright, I -- alright, take my panties off," and she could swear she felt the ghost of a smile against her before he obeyed, slipping them down her legs. She lifted her bottom off the desk to help and then settled back against Sarkissian. The Soldier dropped the panties on the floor and placed an open-mouthed bite against her knee, careful not to damage her stockings, before moving back up. "Keep going."

Dalhart made an involuntary noise as he spread her open with his thumbs and licked up her slit. He was slow, but thorough, experimenting to figure out how to extract more little sounds from her, to find out what made her buck up against him involuntarily. "Oh god," she breathed as he settled into a promising rhythm, licking over her hood again and again, just the right amount of pressure. Her thighs trembled. She wasn't going to last.

Sarkissian pinned her hips in place as she tried to wriggle away. "Come on his tongue. He likes it."

Dalhart surrendered as the Soldier suckled insistently on her clitoris, the hood and shaft wrapped by his lips and tongue pressing against her. _Oh god,_ she thought, and then the slightest graze of teeth had her crying out and pushing up against his face, his prickly facial hair somehow delicious against her swollen, sensitive vulva. In her orgasm she was a bit rough, maybe, holding the Soldier tight against her by the hair. Just like for the Viper, he continued to lick her gently while she came down, little aftershocks pulsing through her. _Christ_ he was good at this. After a minute she groaned and went limp against Sarkissian.

She petted his head awkwardly in mute apology for the hair-pulling and he turned and sucked kisses onto her wrist, her palm, sucking her fingers into his mouth one by one as she ran a stockinged heel idly up and down his back. He was flushed and sweaty, looking at her intently and breathing hard. He kept staring at her and mouthing up her arm until she figured it out. Oh, right. That.

"You've been -- that was so good," Dalhart said haltingly, trying to put the warmth into her voice like the Viper had. He ran a scratchy cheek along her forearm and waited, blue eyes almost black in the dim light. Dalhart looked around, thinking about the logistics of this. "Um. Lay down on the desk. On your back."

She shuffled out of the way as Sarkissian released her to take over Powell's ostentatious office chair, her snakeskin boots propped up on the desk. Dalhart hoped she'd intervene if she did something obviously stupid. The Soldier hopped up in a single fluid motion and lay down exactly as she'd instructed. Dalhart climbed up next to him and then ran a finger over his erection, which was rock hard and dripping a little. He exhaled sharply but didn't move. It lit a fire inside her, knowing he wasn't allowed to do anything about it until she told him to.

Dalhart hesitated and looked at Sarkissian, who seemed to know what her concern was. "He's tested all the time, not that has much chance to acquire anything. All you can catch are babies, if …" she trailed off.

She shook her head. She'd been on the Pill for years, there was no problem there. No more stalling.

Dalhart straddled the Soldier's thighs and wrapped a hand around his dick, stroking him a few times experimentally. He tensed and his hands fisted against the desk, but he stayed where she had put him. Satisfied, she moved forward and mounted him.

His mouth dropped open as she sank down on him. The Soldier was still utterly silent but already looked wrecked, lips red and swollen, mouth and chin still coated with her slick. Dalhart was glad for the long warm-up that meant she didn't need any lube; his dick was as thick as the rest of him. She paused when she bottomed out, flexing around him just to watch his reaction. He might not talk much but right now his face was so very expressive, eyes squeezed shut and gritting his teeth as he fought the urge to thrust up into her.

She started to move on him, sliding up and down slowly and watching him fall apart. The fingers of his metal hand dug furrows into the expensive teak desktop, and he was obviously stopping himself from reaching out and forcing her to pick up the pace. After a few minutes he got himself under control enough to open his eyes, and his right hand came up to rest at the curve of her waist, which was nipped in more than normal by the tightly-laced cincher. His eyes roamed over her face, her lips, her breasts, voluptuous enough to fill out the vintage-style bra. Then his flesh-and-blood hand came up to touch her hair, soft brown curls coming loose as she rode him. He traced gently across her collarbones, and ran careful fingertips over the soft skin of her décolleté, right above the edge of her bra. The Soldier looked up at her almost in awe.

That amount of sensory stimulation must have been overwhelming for him because his eyes fell fell closed again and he bit his lip, head thrown back. His hand slid back down to her hips, although he still had enough sense to refrain from grabbing her. He was finally starting to make tiny noises, soft sounds barely audible above his panting breath, as his body flexed under her helplessly. Dalhart dropped a hand down between her legs as she kept riding him, _fuck_ she hadn't planned for this, hadn't thought it could actually be good. Between her hand and the head of his dick rubbing up against just the right spot inside her, she was definitely going to come again.

Well, maybe not -- he was getting louder, starting to break. "Don't do it," she warned him, "don't you do it," and her hand sped up, trying to race him to the finish. Unfortunately he chose that moment to open his eyes again, and one look at her hand working between her legs had him almost sobbing with the strain of holding still for her. She was for sure going to have finger-shaped bruises on her rear end from how tight he was holding her now, although he still wasn't preventing her from fucking him however she liked. He sat up halfway, propped up on his metal arm, like he wanted to get closer but wouldn't dare interrupt her.

She could feel his thighs clenching, toes starting to curl. "No," she panted, "I said _no_ , Soldier, _fuck_. Me first." Her breasts bounced as she moved faster, bracing her other arm against his shoulder as she chased her own orgasm. He was trying to hold on but sounds were slipping out of him almost continuously now, head tossing back and forth and keening like he couldn't help himself. She was so close, grinding just perfectly on his dick. Losing it now was totally unacceptable. "If you come before I do I'll sit on your face and make you eat it, I swear to God, Soldier," she said sharply and pressed her thumb against the collar on his neck threateningly.

His eyes went wide and he made a punched-out, gasping kind of noise. _Oops_ , Dalhart thought, _that might have backfired_. Both of his hands came up to grab her hips, rock-steady and inescapable. He curled forward to bury his face in her breasts and thrust up into her a final handful of times, moving her up and down on his dick like she weighed nothing. He went deep, deeper than she had, and stayed there as he spilled inside her with a guttural, choked-off cry. His metal hand was warmer than she thought it would be, it wasn't cold at all.

"Augh, dammit!" Dalhart was pissed off and horny and so damned close. She tried to move with all her strength and he barely noticed, still clinging to her and panting.

Dalhart jumped when the Viper tapped her thigh. Christ, she'd forgotten she was there. "Follow through," Sarkissian urged. "You told him what would happen if he disobeyed. Show him you meant it."

The Soldier whimpered at her breast. Fuck it, she was finishing off come hell or high water.

"Yep, yep this is totally happening right now. Lie the _fuck_ down, I cannot even believe you," Dalhart snapped, shoving him away from her and pressing him back against the desk. His dick twitched weakly as she slipped off of him. 

She was breathing hard as she crawled up his body. Maybe she'd feel worse about it if his hands weren't squeezing her rump the whole time, guiding her back up to his face.

As she settled over top of him she could feel how filthy she was, his come starting to leak out of her. She hesitated for half a second but he just groaned and dove in, licking a wide stripe up her cunt to collect the dripping mess and then shoving his tongue inside her. Dalhart gasped and started to fuck down on him, swearing a blue streak and using a hand to spread herself wider for him. He sucked at her messily, sloppy and less controlled than before as he -- fuck, Dalhart thought, _fuck_ \-- licked and swallowed and ate his own goddamn come back out of her, groaning quietly in satisfaction.

This was maybe the hottest thing that had ever happened to her. "Fingers," she said, yanking on his hair, "get your fingers in me right fucking now," and he did exactly as she ordered, giving her something hard to grind against. It was probably two or three, she didn't care. "Yeah, yeah, _yeah_ ," she was right on the edge. "Don't stop, don't you dare stop." For the sake of her dignity she pretended she didn't notice him laughing silently against her at that. She rode his fingers and pulled his hair and did her best not to accidentally knee him in the face as she came, uncontrolled and wild, her whole body clenching as her free hand clawed at his shoulder. Fortunately it was the metal one, she couldn't damage it.

 _Shit_ , she thought hazily, _shit_. The last time she'd come like that was -- maybe never. Fuck.

As before, the Soldier seemed content to keep licking her until she told him to stop. He held her hips in position and kept lapping at her until no trace of fluid was left, resisting just a little when she pulled away.

At that, Dalhart looked down at him frowned. He looked steadily back up at her, then turned his head to push his cheek into her hand. "Oh," Dalhart said, realizing. She was sitting on his chest and not wearing any panties, she didn't think her approval could be any more clear, but he still wanted--

She shoved both hands into his hair and rubbed firm circles, just like the Viper had. "You were so good, so good for me," she said. He blinked slowly and his arms came up to wrap around her thighs. "I really mean it. That was great." He seemed pleased. He yawned, wiggled his jaw sideways until it popped, and then sighed, eyes slipping shut. _Who's a good boy?_ she thought to herself a bit hysterically, _you are! Yes, you!_ Maybe the dog thing was a little more apt than it had first appeared. She could work with that.

In contrast, Sarkissian looked like the cat that got the cream. "Excellent work, Agent. I'm extremely pleased." She seemed entirely nonchalant about the live show she'd just witnessed from three feet away. "I think this is going to work out perfectly." She paused and cocked her head. "Oh. That's a bit earlier than I expected." Loud footsteps, accompanied by feminine giggling, sounded outside the door.

The Soldier had noticed too. In half a second he'd rolled off the desk and deposited Dalhart under cover behind it, reached up for Sarkissian to pull a pistol from one of her thigh holsters, and then tucked himself into the shadows by the standing wardrobe beside the window. The door opened.

"Who the hell--" Commerce director Powell boomed at the utter ruination of his desktop filing system.

The Viper smiled at him from his own chair, her elongated canines gleaming in the darkness. "Merry Christmas," she said, and fired a couple of rounds into his chest. He staggered forward and collapsed, sprawling on the carpet. The Soldier put down the girl with a single headshot before she could start screaming. The Viper's pistols were oddly quiet; Dalhart doubted anybody in the party would have heard anything.

Sarkissian was all business now as she got up and stretched. "Time to go. You can get dressed now, Soldier. Agent, I think your dress might be a lost cause, but I promise I'll buy you a new one."

Dalhart boggled. Sarkissian had shot _Santa Claus_ , who had knocked over the floor lamp in a bid to remain upright, failed, then crawled halfway up the guest chair in front of the desk and was now bleeding out all over her dress. Appalling. He mouthed something at them that Dalhart couldn't quite make out.

"What was that?" the Viper asked while the Soldier retrieved his gear from the wardrobe, pulling out a green silk robe on a hanger and laying it over the Powell's chair without comment. "I'm not sure I quite heard you." 

"Ffffuckin' bitch," he managed to rasp. "S-should've had Ogun kill you."

"Probably," the Viper said brightly. "But we all make mistakes. Don't be too hard on yourself about it. Soldier?"

Dressed in black slacks and a turtleneck, the Soldier padded over barefoot and calmly executed the head of the Department of Commerce. Dalhart frowned. Now there was brain matter splattered all over her dress, too. Gross.

The Viper buckled the mask back over the Soldier's face as Dalhart slipped on the robe. Dalhart shivered at the thought that he was going to go kill with the taste of her still in his mouth.

"Oh, one more thing," the Viper said. She produced a corsage of mistletoe from a black duffel bag in the wardrobe, and attached it to Dalhart's wrist. It smelled vaguely of accelerant. "There. Wouldn't want to accidentally off you now that we've determined you're compatible." She turned to the Soldier. "You remember the mission briefing. When you're ready."

The Soldier crouched down to tie his boots, then picked up Dalhart's discarded panties off the floor next to him and pocketed them as he moved to the doorway. The mask covered his face enough to hide whatever facial expression Dalhart suspected he wore under it.

"Hey!" Dalhart said indignantly, tying the green sash around her waist. She strode after him and the Viper followed, slinging the duffel over her shoulder and closing the door behind her.

They left the room in disarray, the stained glass of the lampshade smashed and ground into the carpet by the Viper's boots. A widening pool of blood slowly engulfed Dalhart's discarded red dress.

***

**The Daily Bugle  
Monday, December 24, 1979**

Fifty-three dead in terror attack on Ohio state legislature building

THE ASSOCIATED PRESS

Columbus, OH -- At least fifty-three people are confirmed dead in an apparent terror attack on the Ohio state legislature building early Saturday morning. A year-end celebration for the regional IOOF chapter ended in tragedy as masked gunmen killed all those in attendance and set the basement annex on fire. 

Firefighters had the blaze under control by 4am but damage to the historic building is expected to be extensive. Sources suggest that costumed "heroes" may once again be involved in the destruction of public property and loss of life. 

Law enforcement officials did not reply to our requests for further information before this report was filed.

Among those killed are the Hon. John Gibbs, ret., 78, a 34-year veteran of the Supreme Court of Ohio; Col. Matthew Calvagh, 55, U.S. Army; and Mr. Otto Reinhardt, 61, regional vice-director of the FBI. The director of the Ohio state Department of Commerce, Mr. Robert Powell, is missing and may be among the dead. His wife, Mrs. A. Powell, was reached by phone at their Hocking Hills estate but had no comment for the media on Sunday morning.

"Our thoughts and prayers are with the families," said Mr. Pierce, newly-appointed regional Director for the Great Lakes branch of S.H.I.E.L.D. after the former regional Director and over two dozen other S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel perished in the attack. "In this time of upheaval, let us look to our core principles for guidance."

Full lists of the deceased will be released on Christmas Day after all families have been notified.

A memorial service will be held on December 26 on the Capitol lawn.

**\-- TURN TO PAGE A6 FOR A SPECIAL REPORT ON THE SOVIET INVASION OF AFGHANISTAN --**

**Author's Note:**

> For cautious readers: the 'dubious consent' tag on this fic applies to both male and female characters. A female character coerces another female character into having sex with a male character. The male character is similarly coerced. The power dynamic among the three different characters fluctuates as they interact throughout the fic. As always, the author notes that physical responses are not evidence of consent.
> 
> 1\. "El Gocho" is a Venezuelan epithet for Carlos Andrés Pérez, President of Venezuela from 1974-1979 and 1989-1993. Click [here](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carlos_Andr%C3%A9s_P%C3%A9rez) to read more. The implication in their verbal sparring is that Pierce has been fomenting unrest in Venezuela, while the Viper has been operating in Soviet territory.
> 
> 2\. The author emphatically does **not** agree with the Viper's line, "Treat a dog vicious and they'll give it right back to you." 'Fighting dogs' (dogs forced to fight) undergo horrific treatment at the hands of humans, but with appropriate rehabilitation, most are able to recover and live a normal life. See: [1](http://www.cnn.com/2013/09/14/us/dog-fight-rehabilitation/) [content note: written descriptions of cruelty to animals, images of abused animals recovering in the care of rescue organizations] and [2](http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/04/10/michael-vick-dogs-vicktory_n_5119150.html) [content note: written descriptions of cruelty to animals] as examples.
> 
> 3\. The Soviet military intervention in Afghanistan began on December 24, 1979 and lasted for over a decade. Click [here](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Soviet_war_in_Afghanistan) to read more.


End file.
